Aden was thrown into the containment chamber, a heavily fortified cell deep beneath the Imperial Palace, where only those with nowhere left to run were sent. The walls were cold stone, the silence maddening.
His wrists still bore the faint impressions of the enchanted cuffs, and his body ached from the pressure of the Emperor's aura earlier.
There, in the quiet gloom, he replayed the Emperor's words over and over again. The choice seemed simple—clear Dahaka or rot in prison. But the weight of it was crushing.
Dahaka wasn't just some forsaken stretch of land; it was a graveyard for fools and warriors alike. Monsters, unpredictable terrain, and who knew what else.
He sat with his back against the stone, staring blankly into the torch-lit wall, wrestling with the gravity of his options. "Fight beasts and possibly die… or rot and definitely die," he muttered to himself.
Hours passed , maybe a full day. He couldn't tell. Time blended in the silence.
Then, unexpectedly, the metallic creak of the chamber door echoed. Footsteps. Not a guard's—too slow, too deliberate. An old man appeared, dressed in the unassuming clothes of a palace janitor. He carried a broom, but his eyes held something far sharper than any weapon.
"You're thinking too loud," the man said.
Aden narrowed his eyes. "Who are you supposed to be?"
"Just a cleaner," the man smiled. "Came to deliver something left behind by your father."
He reached into his robes and pulled out an aged, leather-bound book. Dust clung to its surface, but the crest of House Vasco was unmistakable, engraved in gold.
"What is this?" Aden asked, taking it cautiously.
"A memoir. History of your bloodline. Might come in handy where you're going," the old man said cryptically. "Dahaka holds more than just monsters."
Before Aden could ask more, the old man had turned and vanished down the corridor, leaving no sound behind.
That night, sleep came in fragments. His dreams—or were they memories?—were jagged and hazy. A duel under moonlight. Screams. The smell of iron and blood. And then a shadow… looming… with glowing red eyes staring straight at him.
He awoke drenched in sweat, heart pounding.
He opened the book, fingers trembling as they flipped through pages stained by time and grief. There were records of bloodshed, betrayal, and battles. The legacy of the Vasco name wasn't one built on glory—it was a monument of scars.
He found himself staring at a crude drawing of a man who looked almost like him, half his face burned away, wielding a blade twice his size. A note scrawled beneath it read:
"Those who wear our name must be willing to drown in blood to stay afloat."
Aden closed the book.
What kind of man had the original Aden Vasco been? A monster? A victim? Or just a man shaped by the cruelty of this world?
He wasn't sure. But the name... his name now wasn't something he could ignore. Not anymore.
As he stood in the center of the room, he noticed a pale sliver of moonlight spilling through a slit in the stone high above. A single beam filtering through a narrow window—barely wide enough to slip a body through.
He stared up at it.
Dahaka was waiting.
And he had made his choice.